The Day of the Dead - Samhain on the Hill of the Poets

Last week I heard the news of an old friend’s death - he was 94, so not really a surprise, but it brought home the feeling of this phase of autumn, that things are slowly slipping away, leaves from the trees, flowers from the garden, warmth and sunlight from the day. In the garden I am cutting things back, pruning, clearing, and tidying away, and it looks quieter, darker, abandoned, except by the sparrows and coal tits who come to the feeder. After several days of grey, dreary and thankfully wet weather, we have had hard frost and sunshine this morning, and the flowers and fruit of summer in the estate have been replaced by pumpkins and skeletons, climbing nets with giant spiders on the fronts of houses, ghostly floating shapes instead of hanging baskets. It’s time for meditations on death - the fading, the losses, the grief, the fear. I’ve spent a fair bit of time in and about hospitals with family members lately, and though all the all the signs say ‘not yet’, at this time of year I’m aware that the next words should really be ‘but one day….’ Yesterday was the five year anniversary of my mother’s death (long-expected at 96) which leaves me the oldest survivor of my family. There is no-one I can ask who remembers a time before me. It’s very odd.

My tradition keeps November as the month of the Holy Souls, not just a memory but a continuing fellowship with those who have left us. The last few years have taken several good friends, and my I find myself in the state of mind where I want to acknowledge earlier losses - not with too much sadness these days, but with affection and gratitude. More than ever I appreciate setting aside a time to honour their part in my life.

But It’s also a time for apples, sweets, jokes and parties. Hallowe’en in this estate is the best time of year, and we usually meet all the families. The guisers are mostly extremely well-behaved, and though the jokes are terrible, their thanks are never missing. There is a non-verbal child this year whose mother tipped us off that she will be giving us a thumbs-up, and everyone is delighted to support this. Some people go to great lengths to decorate houses - there’s an organised pumpkin trail and the children are rewarded on a scale I never would have expected when my children were guising. Spooky stories are for fun, not punishment - we laugh in the face of our deepest fears.

And, behind the cutting back, and the meditations on our latter end, there’s a time to lay the ground for renewal, clearing the space for the new year that lies dormant, a time of stillness and darkness watching for the spark of a new life. While I was getting photos for this letter, I found several plants already gearing up for spring.

Earlier this year I wrote a poem to celebrate the poets we lost over the last few years, and the torch they’ve handed us to carry into the future. If this is a day of the dead time with you, here’s a spark!

The Hill of the Poets
A summer of peat and salt and holy water.
The garden struggled in the low light
and the chill of a summer that never happened,
and the hill paths were muddy and littered
with half bottles of vodka and bleached vapes.
In dreams I walked dark forests and bare mountains,
looking for sacred wells and inspiration,
not finding it. So many deaths, venues and presses closed.
The fire on the hearth of poetry had gone out
and nothing in my notebook but a few wan scribbles.
 
Watching the nine nights, the month’s mind
of a death that might have happened, the deaths
that really happened, the thick soup of funerals,
the songs, the reading of memorial poems. I walked
the coffin paths of zoom and laid work to rest.
The hill broke my knees, I sat and did not weep.
Rifles sounded on grey weekends. There were
few bees, no butterflies at all. We’re all dead,
I thought, every one of us. All gone through that door.
 
I went through that door. The new fire was burning.
Brian Johnstone had brought wine from Crete,
there was cake from Sheila Templeton, dark and rich
with scent of raisins and spices. Gerry Loose
had picked blaeberries and leaves for tea.
Brian Whittinghame was taking photos, and he
and Billy Bonar were talking football, capping
each other’s stories and laughing. Ruby McCann’s
glad raucous music of Clyde and Mississippi
filled the room. We raised our glasses. I stole an ember.

In poetry, the clearing and making room is happening too. Comrades of Dark Night is with the publisher, and should launch in March. If you would like to review it, or know of places that would like to book me to read from it, could you let me know please? And there is a promise of new work on the other side - some meditations about herbs and poetry and cultural and environmental regeneration, and a very faint glimpse of a new poetry collection called Spark.

Wishing you a spark of light and peace and good company in the dark!